


she'heheyanu

by thisissirius



Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Outsider, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/pseuds/thisissirius
Summary: if love does not depend on some selfish end, it will never pass away.





	she'heheyanu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



  _whenever love depends on some selfish end **.o1**_

“I love you,” David whispers.

Jack closes his eyes, turns his face away from David, falling into shadow until Sarai can no longer see it.

She’s not supposed to be here. The scene before her is private, a moment stolen amidst the celebration, but she can’t tear her eyes away.

“Jack,” David says, his voice firm. He places a hand to Jack’s cheek, turns it gently, so much reverence in a tiny gesture. Jack’s eyes are half-hidden, but Sarai finds she doesn’t need to see it to know the emotion shining out of them. “I love you.”

“I heard you,” Jack says, hoarse, and Sarai watches his hands clutch at the back of David’s jacket, like it’s a lifeline he can’t bear to release.

“So, believe it.”

As if it were easy, Sarai thinks. She herself is no stranger to love–nor of losing it. Doubting the sincerity and longevity of such a thing is easy. Perhaps as much for Jack, who leans his forehead against David’s shoulder. It is a weakness he doesn’t often afford himself, always so intent on being the strength behind David’s shoulder, the gift God himself bestowed upon David to aid in the resistance.

Jack sighs, sounding both put upon and hopelessly fond when he says, “Alright,” affably, like giving in is so easy.

Perhaps it is. Sarai turns back to the party raging through the base, small victories celebrated as much as the large ones. Perhaps they are only making small progress towards ousting King Silas, but every little push, every inch of ground claimed, seems to unite Jack and David in resolve.

And, Sarai thinks with a small smile, in affection.

(In love.)

 

_when the end passes away, the love passes away; **.o2**_

Jonah often sees Jack amongst those on the front lines.

David less so, given the protection he endures as the one favoured by God. Nevertheless, he is often there when they return home, receiving them all by name, and congratulating them on whatever success they have managed, and if they have not, commiserates with them individually. It is why they are all so willing to fight for him, Jonah knows.

He hears the whispers about Jack, so much less a prince now than he was before, but someone who David treats with such pride and affection that Jonah wonders which of them will bear the crown. It is a foolish thought;

“I’ll put the crown on David’s head myself,” Jack says time and again. The conviction in his tone, the expression on his face, tells a truth that frightens Jonah in intensity.

“Welcome back,” David says, every time they arrive home, reserving his kindest smile, his most sacred words, the lightest touch for Jack. He’ll turn his face into the side of Jack’s, whispering something low that Jonah never hears.

Jack never replies, at least not anywhere Jonah can hear, but he’ll be back with them the next time, even when David’s angry, his words leaving a lasting mark as he orders Jack out of his house, out of the city, anywhere else.

Sometimes, he’ll send Jack off with a pained smile, shaking hands, a bitterness to his mouth that Jonah thinks of as regret. That he cannot come, perhaps, or something he can’t say as Jack leaves.

“Idiot,” Jack mutters, as they head out for their next assignment.

Jonah doesn’t think he means it with anything less than affection, even on those difficult days.

_but if it does not depend on some selfish end, it will never pass away. **.o3**_

They’re fighting again.

Zack’s hand is pressed to the wood of David’s door, hovering outside. The voices from inside would filter through even if they weren’t raised in anger. Zack sighs, knows he should leave the documents under the door and give them their privacy, but he’s always been curious.

 _Nosey_ , his mother says.

Used to say.

“You’re an idiot,” David snaps, his tone clipped and furious.

There’s an answering noise, but Zack can’t make it out.

Jack mutters something, then louder, “Just because you don’t like a contrary point of view, doesn’t make me an idiot.”

“Scaling back doesn’t make sense,” David replies, curt and exhausted. Zack’s sure they’re arguing about the documents he currently has in his hand, orders from the front lines, demanding reinforcements–or retreat. “If we send out the troops they need, we’ll make ground, Jack, and you know it!”

“We can’t keep losing them,” Jack snarls, and Zack’s seen him angry enough to know the expression on his face. He no longer carries the bruises he’d been wearing the day he arrived. Even the scars on his heart and mind have faded into something dull and even, bursting into life so rarely that Zack often forgets there are parts of himself that Jack’s still desperately fighting.

There’s a long, loaded silence.

“It wasn’t your fault,” David says abruptly, the anger bleeding out so quickly Zack’s surprised by it.

“Shut up,” Jack says without heat. “You can’t just–”

“ _Jack_ ,” and Zack doesn’t want to listen to any more. There’s no disputing that tone of the voice, nor the whispered murmurs that come after, and Zack crumples the documents in his hand as he clutches them tightly. He’ll come back in the morning, when he’s sure the argument–and its aftermath–are done with.

 

_which love did not depend on a selfish end? **.o4**_

Isai feels the exhaustion deep in her bones, but she refuses to give in and rest.

There are so few of them coming home, most of those wounded and bearing scars they’re afraid to acknowledge. When they enter the safe house, spreading into every corner to debrief and recover, she finds herself apart from the others, curled up in a corner.

She can’t sleep, walks the dark and quiet halls in an effort to stave off the nightmares. The kitchens are usually abandoned at this hour, but as she approaches, she sees light spilling out from behind the half-open door.

There are two figures shifting in the room, both she recognises instantly, their voices low but unmistakable.  

David, their leader and saviour, stands with his most of his face hidden, arms folded across his chest. He’s a good man, someone Isai trusts implicitly having only met him a handful of times.

The other man in the room, she is less certain of. David trusts him, speaks of him often in bursts of affection and frustration, depending on the circumstances.

“I sent them,” Jack is saying, his hands clenched by his sides.

Isai hardly dares breathe. He is speaking of her–or her unit–and their failed mission.

David’s expression softens, heartbreak evident in every movement. “Yes, you did,” he says, and though Jack raises his head, David doesn’t back down, chin tilted. “As you’ll send them again, and again.”

“David,” Jack starts, angry, every line of his body taught and tense. He’s shaking, Isai realizes, noting the way he keeps a steady distance between himself and David, keeps close to the exit.

It’s a habit he’s kept up since his arrival at the house, and Isai doesn’t know where it occurred, nor what happened to him before he was rescued. She finds she doesn’t wish to know what can cause such a haunted look in a man as strong and defiant as Jack.

“You bear decisions,” David continues, ignoring Jack’s aborted attempts to say something. “Because that’s what you have to do.”

Jack huffs a laugh, surprising Isai – and apparently David. “Look at you,” Jack continues, unbearably fond, but with a touch of pride. “God made the right choice in the end.”

“He gave me you,” David says easily, as if words like that should be said with little regard.

Isai closes her eyes and retreats before she can hear–or see–Jack’s response. It is more than she deserves to see, and whatever comes next is theirs and theirs alone.

 

_this was the love of david and jonathan **.o5**_

Peter’s never met Jack. He knows of him; there isn’t anyone in Gath who doesn’t know the Tyrant King. Fallen from grace he may be, but there’s something in the way David says his name that holds a reverence usually held for God alone.

David is nothing if not Touched, so when he orders the rescue, Peter immediately offers his help. They’re under the cover of darkness, storming a palace that should be heavily guarded, but even Peter’s surprised by the ease with which they get right to Jack’s door.

It helps that Thomasina–someone who gives so readily to David when his large hands are holding her place, his mouth twisted into an expression Peter’s never seen when he spits, “Take me to Jack.”

The tension and defiance bleed from Thomasina in a heartbeat at whatever David whispers to her next, something Peter can’t hear.

Peter doesn’t have to worry about time; they have soldiers aplenty, the palace guard schedule timed to the second to maximize their success. They’ll grab Jack with time to spare, though something will have to be done with Thomasina; Peter doubts David will let her follow.

It is Jack, however, that troubles Peter–and David.

Peter’s expecting the brash, smart-mouthed king, perhaps even the prince he’s grown up watching, but the man on the other side of the door is somehow _less._

David says Jack’s name, furious and distressed in equal measure. Peter’s never heard that tone, never seen the expression of anguish quite like the one David’s sporting, the way his hands shake as he grips the end of the bed.

There’s a woman framing his body, half-dressed and startled by their interruption. Prince Jack, stretched out beneath her, fists curled into the sheets, is pale, shaking almost as hard as David. Perhaps more so.

“David,” he says, and his voice is raw, used, like he’s been screaming for hours, months, days.

David opens his mouth once, twice.

There’s the sound of a yell from outside, a bang and then a shot. Peter curses under his breath, words that God will not blame him for. “We have to go.”

David shoots him a quick look, then bends down, gently pries the woman away from Jack. “You’re coming with us.”

Jack stares at Peter, at the door, at David. “David.”

Peter wonders if that’s the only word he can say.

“Yeah,” David says, as if nothing else will come. When the woman tries to object, to climb back onto Jack, David politely–firmly–pries Jack away from her, bullies him into standing.

“Get moving,” Peter hisses, and the shots are getting louder.

David shakes Jack a little. “You have to move.”

Jack shakes his head, nods, disorientated. He catches Peter watching, expression twisting into something angry and embarrassed. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even fight when David starts to haul him towards the door.

There’s a shrill cry from the woman, she rushes around the bed, stalls when Peter steps effortlessly between her and Jack and David.

“Go,” Peter snaps.

David and Jack do, Jack a little slower, stumbling like he’s forgotten how his feet work. It’s only now that Peter can see him properly, and he catalogues it away as quickly as he moves back to the door, that Jack’s clothes are torn, worn and dirty, bloody in patches he tries not think about.

Thomasina is down, a clean shot, and David falters. Jack doesn’t even look, tucks up behind David and suddenly he’s the one urging David on. Peter’s the only one, he thinks, that can see the shaking hands Jack presses to David’s back and shoulder. Maybe David can feel it.

There’s the sound of feet on the stairs, and David immediately guides them to the windows, a balcony they’ve already scouted, already determined for their exit.

“Go,” David shouts, hauling Jack out with him, balancing precariously on the balcony.

Peter waits for his soldiers to step through after them and follows, something whizzing through the open door and embedding itself in his arm. He lets out a noise of surprise, a grunt of pain, and tumbles off the balcony, onto the waiting bed of the truck.

It skids, takes off as the palace guards pile out onto the balcony, bullets hitting dirt and truck in a rain of fire.

 “Was he worth it?” Peter asks, when they’re safe from the hail of bullets. The graze is painful, blood seeping through the fabric, and he winces.

David doesn’t answer for a long time. They’re almost back to safety when he speaks, Jack’s head cradled in the crook of his arm, the clammy, pale skin littered with scratches and wounds that would seem superficial. There are always deeper injuries, Peter knows, below the surface. 

Jack’s not said anything since they left the palace, and he’s almost asleep, fitful and body tense.

“Always,” David says quietly. “God knows I need him.”

Peter watches as David drops his head, whispers something into Jack’s ear that he cannot hear–and does not think he wants to. One man is not enough to carve a new world out of the old, tattered remains of a once proud kingship.

David is no longer just one man.


End file.
